


Piper

by Limecola



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Comedy, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Needles, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 16:48:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17770553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Limecola/pseuds/Limecola
Summary: You can't remember why or when or how you got here, but maybe these funny storybook characters can help you feel a little less lost.*A Batman story told from the perspective of an original rogue character, who falls into strange but fitting company in the form of Jervis Tetch and Jonathan Crane. This Jervis is not based exclusively on any one version of the character, but was inspired most by his depiction in 'Arkham Asylum: Living Hell' (the other characters are a total mishmash).I'll be updating the tags/rating/warnings to reflect content of future chapters, but be warned that it's going to veer in and out of nsfw territory really fast so, please do read the tags and future chapter notes.





	Piper

****Arkham was an awfully strange little hotel, and it puzzled you why so many people wanted you to live here.

Every morning when the sun rose, little soldiers in nurse uniforms marched into your room and insisted you swallow a handful of pills. White pills and orange pills, round and long, big like nuts and small like flower seeds. Sometimes the soldiers pricked you with a syringe. They said it would only hurt for a moment, but your arm was always terribly sore after. You were certain that it was the pills and the pricks that made you feel so dizzy and so ill. Every night, when they escorted you back to your room after dinner, you stumbled into bed and slept through long and uneasy dreams, all the way till morning.

You had a therapist, who you saw in a brightly lit room two floors up. He was a kind, but confusing man. When they took you to see him, the soldiers dressed you in a straightjacket, which they insisted was to make you more comfortable. You thought that you’d manage just fine without it, but it was hard to convince them when you’d never tried visiting in other attire.

Dr. Loeb spoke to you gently, telling you many things about working through delusional beliefs. Often he said that the most important thing of all was that you were here, in Arkham. You tried to agree politely to everything, despite hardly understanding a word. One day, you truthfully told him that it gave you ease knowing he thought Arkham was a good home for you, and he smiled through his mustache.

Life in Arkham could have been fine, even with the pills and pricks and strange fellows, if it hadn’t been for one horrible, upsetting rule: You were not allowed to make music. Dr. Loeb was very adamant about this, as were the nurse-soldiers whenever they thought they heard so much as a hum out of you. When you’d first arrived, or maybe it was a few weeks after, you’d felt the impulse to test out the acoustics of your room. You walked slowly around to every corner, whistling a sad tune and listening carefully. The soldiers had rushed in, holding you still while one pushed something uncomfortable into your mouth. They fastened a strap tight around the back of your head, and even after they left you alone, you couldn’t find a way to get it off.

They left you like that all day, barely able to make a sound and completely unable to eat or drink. It was only after you began hearing the faint rumble of the diner downstairs filling with patrons that they finally returned to remove it. And oh, you were so glad – your stomach was complaining loudly, and your jaw was getting terribly sore. Rather harshly, the nurse-soldiers told you that if you did not stop making music, you would need to wear the gag every day. You assured them that would not be necessary, and for the most part, you stayed true to your word. Humming, though, you couldn’t always help, but you at least did your best to keep it out of earshot of the nurse-soldiers.

Every afternoon after lunch, you had some free time when nobody tried to hussle you off anywhere. You usually took the opportunity to wander around the premises cautiously, as far as the employees would let you go. There were hallways, a leisure room with a television and a few games, and courtyard surrounded by wire fencing. Other rooms opened and closed, locked and unlocked on their own schedule. Sometimes you chatted with the nurse-soldiers or with other residents, but the former were always very busy, and the later often acted like ghosts, drifting unresponsive or shrieking as if in horror. With such limited company, you’d fallen into the habit of keeping to yourself. That is, until the day you met the Hatter.

You were sitting at one of the long diner tables, chasing leftover peas round and round your plate with a fork, when the little man approached you. You might have mistaken him for a child had it not been for the blonde stubble peppering his chin and cheeks. The bottoms of his orange pants were rolled up many times and secured with short strips of duct tape, and his t-shirt sleeves reached well below his elbows. On his head was a skillfully folded top hat made from newspaper. As he climbed with some difficulty onto the bench next to you, you could make out a headline about a flood in Texas, partially obscured by a faded police car.

He had to tilt his head up comically to see you over the brim of his headgear - you were, you had to imagine, perhaps twice his height? Maybe you towered over him like a lamp-post over a tabby cat. You suddenly felt a bit dizzy, but the man locked eyes with you and grinned.

“Would you care for some tea?” His voice sounded a little giddy and had a squeak to it, not unlike a cat. He inched a little closer, and you wondered vaguely whether he wished to be petted.

He watched very closely as you considered his question. Tea? They’d only ever served you water at this diner, it had never occurred to you to ask for tea.

“Y-yes, I would love some.” You said after a few awkward moments and another little scoot towards you by the stranger. “Do you have earl grey?”

His grin widened to nearly absurd proportions. He was certainly enthusiastic about tea.

He turned to the table and picked up a plastic cup half-filled with water, left there by a previous patron. Then he snatched up your own, empty cup. Slowly and oh-so-carefully, he poured the water from the first cup into the second. You watched in perplexed silence.

Once the last drops of water had been transferred, he offered the cup to you. You noticed that he held it precariously daintily, with the tips of his fingers and thumb, and his pinky sticking out as if he were holding a teacup.

Not wanting to be rude (and afraid he may drop the cup), you accepted, and took several slow sips. You thought, perhaps, you would taste earl grey after all… And perhaps you did? Perhaps. It was better than water, you reasoned. Anything was.

“Thank you.” You said, putting the cup down and wiping your mouth. “It’s good.”

He reached up and plucked your moistened hand away from your face, and began shaking it enthusiastically.

“I’m the Mad Hatter. But,” he winked at you, though you weren’t sure why. “You may call me Hatter if you wish.”

“Oh.” You said, feeling a bit less confused. “Are you from… That book? _Alice in Wonderland_?”

“The very same!” He clasped his hands together in delight and swung his feet in the air like a child.

“Oh…” That explained the tea. He was mad, it was in his name. “How did you come to live here, if I may ask?”

He put a finger to his chin and scratched a spot of scruff thoughtfully. “You know, I’m not quite sure. But I suppose it doesn’t matter much.”

“I suppose.” You replied. The notion was unsatisfying but, calming.

He looked up at you with a bright-eyed smile. “Who are _you_?”

“Oh!” You hadn’t even introduced yourself. How rude. “Well, I’m…” The cogs in your head creaked and popped and failed to turn correctly. “W-well, I’m…” You gestured emphatically but emptily. “I suppose, I….”

“Do you not know who you are?” He asked quietly. He pressed a finger to his chin and cocked his head to the side in… Curiosity? Sympathy?

You rubbed your temples then your eyes, trying to gather your thoughts.

“W-well you see, it’s all very complicated… Dr. Loeb, he’s my therapist you see, he tells me, well _he_ always calls me Angus… Or, Mr. Jameson… But, mostly, Angus. So I, I suppose that’s what you ought to call me too.”

“I suppose.” He muttered, regarding you curiously. He scooted even closer to you, so that the side of his thigh was literally pressed against your own. You looked down, confused by the contact. You were wearing identical pants.

Suddenly you felt his little hand on your chin, and your face was being tilted up till you were looking into Hatter’s wide blue eyes. “You should tell me who you really are. Please.” He said in a sort of stage-whisper.

“Uh.” This felt a little… Intimate. You thought you heard a ghost giggle as it drifted by. You sat up straight and moved your head away, clearing your throat. “Well, uh, you see, I’m the Pied Piper… From, the story as well. I’m afraid I haven’t got the faintest idea how I got here either, but well, it doesn’t matter much. You… You can call me Piper if you’d like. Just please don’t let Dr. Loeb hear.”

The Hatter clapped his hands together gleefully, and the sudden motion made you jerk back in alarm. You felt a sort of warm numbness where his leg had touched yours.

“Oh, I’ve read about you in storybooks! What a small world.” He clambered off the bench and hopped to his feet, gesturing for you to follow. “I simply must introduce you to my friend the Scarecrow!”

You didn’t hesitate to follow; someone like you, from a faraway story, you’d never dreamt of finding in Arkham. And though he was a very funny little man, you didn’t mind his company at all. Nonetheless, as he lead you down hallways and stairs and more hallways, you couldn’t help secretly hoping that the Hatter’s friend wasn’t mad.

***

The Scarecrow really did look the part. All spindly limbs and pointy bends, floofy hair and tired eyes, he sat hunched over a book alone at a little table in an otherwise empty room. He seemed rickety as a sunbleached picket fence, his legs splayed under the table at odd angles and fingers curled like claws. Your entrance didn’t illicit the slightest reaction, as he seemed wholly engrossed in his reading.

“Professor!” Hatter pulled you in front of the table and parked you there proudly. “I found the Pied Piper!”

“Did you now, Jervis….” You had almost not expected a response, but the Scarecrow’s voice rang surprisingly clear, even if it was ladden thick with sarcasm and a southern drawl. He never raised his eyes from the page, slowly thumbing a top corner in preparation to turn it over.

He didn’t seem very interested in you… Wanting to be friendly, you ventured a question in your most polite tone. “Are you, by any chance, the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz…?”

Slowly, he looked up at you with a stony expression. You noticed, with an unexpected twinge of fear, that the whites of his eyes were nearly pink, as though he never blinked.

“No.” He intoned, making you feel so silly you wished you had never spoken. “No, I am not from The Wizard of Oz.”

With a little sneer, his gaze returned to his book.

Afraid you’d just offended his friend, you looked to the Hatter for guidance. But he wasn’t where you’d left him - he’d scampered to the Scarecrow’s side, and was trying to whisper something to him. At least, he seemed to be trying to whisper… One hand was held next to his mouth, and he was using a conspiratory tone. You could hear him quite clearly.

“Professor! Do you know where my special hats have gone off to? I seem to have misplaced them…”

The Scarecrow sighed, loudly and pointedly, as he slowly turned the page. “We are in the _asylum_ , Jervis.” He spoke in that same tired drawl. “They found your stash of "special hats” in April, and confiscated everything.“

"Oh bother…” Hatter moaned, tapping one foot unhappily on the stone floor. “Bother, bother, bother…”

“Don’t _hurt_ him, Jervis.” Who? You? “They’ll take that paper toy away, then _I’ll_ have to deal with your sorry state.”

You wondered what all this meant. “Um, Mr. Scarecrow, is it ok if I ask… What makes these special hats so special they got confiscated…?”

“They control the mind of the wearer.”

“Scarecrow!” The Hatter stomped his foot angrily, like a child not getting what he wants.

Oh, was that the Hatter's real intention with you? Had his friendliness been a ruse this whole time? You crossed your arms and looked at Hatter, miffed. “Now _that’s_ rude, isn’t it? Were you going to try and control my mind?”

The Hatter muttered something unintelligible in an unhappy tone, pulling his paper hat down to hide his eyes.

For a few long minutes, nobody spoke. The Scarecrow turned another page noisily in the quiet, and Hatter continued to mutter and fidget with his hat.

Finally, you sighed deeply and put your hands on your hips, gaze turned pointedly towards an empty corner of the room.

“I **suppose** I can forgive you for your nasty plan… But, you’ll need to promise me to **never** make me wear any of your special hats.”

The Hatter let out a frustrated whine, and ground the heel of his shoe into the floor.

You turned to watch the Scarecrow as Hatter grumbled and fidgeted and made a fuss. You wondered whether the Scarecrow was angry with you, or if he would let you sit and read with him if the Hatter proved himself to be truly unsavoury company. You should ask him where he got the book.

“Fine.” After much apparent deliberation, Hatter sulkily relented. “I won’t make you wear a special hat.”

You reached a hand down to him. After a moment he nodded, and shook it solemnly with both of his.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading 🎩🎼🎃


End file.
